


don't touch me when it's cloudy.

by crazy_muffin



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, how come i never used gentle in this one its like my fav world, i am learning something here okay, i can help to see no plot, is this seriously a jeans fic, some graphic touches, symbolic game, what the hell am i doing with my life, word playing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:14:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazy_muffin/pseuds/crazy_muffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i have nothing to say about this one. Zarry, okay?</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't touch me when it's cloudy.

**Author's Note:**

> i kinda had the idea of playing with some non-straightforward descriptions.
> 
> please, tell me about mistakes, i'm a freakin' moron (and nobody raised me in English).

jeans is on of the most popular fabrics on the planet  
because is cheap and durable in the same time

once for workmen, for the mases now.

but i can't wear jeans because of you.

 

jeans was that one time, when i was in trousers surrounded by silk and those easy-to-wrinkle fabrics suits are made of.  
eveyrhing was the same - soft appetisers, dresses long to the ground, your hair and hand in my back pocket, when we've taken pictures, even paps were like this.  
and there was i. in your jeans.

not spicy chicken soup, almost white marble counter tops and your pale hands partly covered in flour. they found their way to my boxers rubber-belt, as you liked to call it, which was also loose. curls tickling my kneck,  
your toe grazing my ankle, lips wandering along sholuder blades.  
all of this with the button and waistband of you jeans, where the inner stiches of you pockets starts right there where it touched my back dimples.

in quiet night, probably full of bumblebees gently beatin' onto windows, no streetlights and some Irish snoring behind the wall. the sheets were really soft (Ritz-y soft and clean), so was your shirt and eyelashes on my cheek.  
but not everything this time shared this harmony, so you didn't bother to pull your bell out along with the rest of your cloth-like gathering as just got in the bed with me.  
and rough surface of your trouser's leg soothed my rough sniffes, bringing me back to the land where only this feeling had the permit no to fit in the delicate scenario.  
it's quite an odd feeling for you skin, to meet this sensation after trashing about under absolutely silky duvet.

 

velvet fingertips, the sleek filter-cover of non-mentol smoke and stars flickering over my head couldn't fool me now. There was no way it was only all sorts of soft things besides of jacket you tried to put on my bare shoulders.  
there were fists, firm wrist-grabbing and mouth forced to one other. knees striking together along with some higher placed body parts. but it didn't change a thing.  
then some fabric started tearing apart. 

your jeans jacket landed on the pavement, where it belonged. with you. lynig bruised on the raw concrete. 

 

i don't wear jeans anymore. i have leather clothes, pepper in my food and woolen bedcloth i travel with.  
i don't believe something that happens independently (not much effort from me) can be resilient. and i can have roughish, on my own.


End file.
